Tribsy: A Tale of Redwall
by MerlinJones
Summary: In loving memory of Brian Jacques who recently passed away, and my love of the series, I have decided to post this story. It follows the journey of three young Salamandaston hares, who, with the help of the Long Patrol, embark on a perilous journey to save Redwall from a fearsome monster, the likes of which Mossflower has never known. Hope you enjoy, and please follow, and review!


Of all the tales told,

Of all the stories sung;

Of all journeys that have been had,

This is by far the greatest one!

This adventure took place quite some time ago,

Whilst we were all still limber and young;

Alas! Those days are now distant memories,

Long been over, and long been done!

Days of valour, of triumph, of sorrow,

And of good friends, loyal and true,

Now listen closely,

Gather round;

As I relate this tale to you.

-Corporal Tribiculus of the Long Patrol

Book One:

The Serpent from the Sea

1

It was a calm, cloudless night. Cool sea breezes wafted up from the sea towards the western shores, where the grandiose mountain fortress of Salamandastron stood ever watchful overlooking the peaceful ebbing tide, like some sort of ancient monolithic sentinel guarding its watery domain. The only audible sound to be heard on the still night air was that of the ocean waves, lapping gently against the shore, relentlessly replacing the old sediment with the new.

_ Inside _the fortress, however, it was an entirely different story.

It was a sight of mass chaos within the mess hall; around two score mountain hares were tightly crammed together, all of which were within a constant sate of turmoil and disarray, jostling and butting in between each other, for a chance at the tasty dishes laid out before them.

An old drum major was steadily beating a hollowed out gourd with a wooden ladle trying to restore order, but to no avail: those present would not cease their consistent berating, bickering, bantering, or bamboozling; that was until drill Sergeant Finnegan arrived on the scene.

He was a sight to instil fear into even the most venerated hares of the famed Long Patrol. Rumour had it that the battle-sacred Sergeant had garnered a well-earned reputation for marching his regiment till they were bone tired; then would continue until they dropped.

The gnarled old veteran's rep was so bad that he had been given the notorious nickname, Ferocious Finnie by some of the younger hares among them, (though none dared say this in his presence, for they feared the severe punishment for what was dubbed as "insubordination" among the more higher in rank.)

Of course, this was mostly all barrack room gossip, but from his fearsome one-eyed monocle glare to waxed and curled mustachios, down to his decorated blue jacket and gleaming silver rapier, Reaper, he was an imposing figure, and not to be dealt with lightly.

In the dead silence that followed, all the hares that were present, ears erect, standing straight, and hands in a respectful salute, an unfortunate had accidently let fly a gob of putting that had splattered unceremoniously on the seargent's prized monocle. Furious at this action, and seething with rage, he hastily wiped it off with a gold-trimmed handkerchief, and then strode up and down the long mess hall table, his hands clasped behind his back firmly grasping his infamous swagger stick, looking desperately for anything or anyone out of the ordinary among the ranks, so he could deal out solid retribution to the one who had launched the unintended projectile in his direction.

Foggrin, who was the one he had launched the pudding in the first place, tried his best to stand at attention. Unfortunately, he was shaking from head to scut, which was rather undignified among his fellow comrades in arms, and the hare standing beside him, Furgles, decide to make it known to him.

Delivering him a sharp painful kick in the rump, the unfortunate yelped in pain and surprise.

This alerted the scrutinizing eye of Finnegan, who came nonchalantly strolling down the table toward the unfortunate hare.

The sergeant waited till he was right behind Foggrin before he spoke. His voice was icy cold, as he spoke into the young one's ear, "Well, well. If it isn't Foggrin Macfarl, son of the legendary Fergan Mcfarl; he was a good comrade o' mine in my younger seasons."

The old regimental hare breathed warmly against the stricken hare's neck; the latter replying shakily, "S-s-sorry, s-s-sah! I-i-t was an acc-cc-cci-dent, I-I s-s-wear i- i-t!"

A horrified hush emanated out from the surrounding hares; all knew what was coming next, and it wouldn't be pretty.

Finnegan was livid with rage, and he made it well known to the wretched young march hare.

"H'an accident?! H'a bally accident! Why you-you- you h' impudent young h'excuse for h'a March hare! H'I oughta-H'I-oughta-h'insubordiantion! That's what h'it bally well h'is! Do ye want to know what H'I thinks h' is a bally h'accident?! No? Well H'I'll tell ye h'anyhow; you being in the jolly h'old Patrol, eh, wot! What've ye got to say for yourself h'eh?"

The young hare was trying to keep composed, but it was a struggle between everyone eyeing him mournfully, the spittle all over his neck, and the tears brimming in his eyes.

"It won't happen again, sah!" he said miserably, his ears wilting.

"H'it better not!" the sergeant replied gaining control of himself, and hitting Foggrin lightly in the rump, with his swagger stick.

As if suddenly notching that all eyes were focused on him, he growled malevolently, "What h'are you h'all looking at eh? I h'want all of h'you on patrol duty tomorrow; bright and h'early!"

Frostily stalking out of the room, he added one final comment, to make sure he had got his point across. "And not h'one more peep out of any of ya, or h'you're h'all on a fizza!"

With that final threat dolled out to his satisfaction, he was gone; back off to his chambers to (hopefully) retire for the night.

A deep winded sigh of relief permeated the room, not to mention a few frosty glares pointed in Forggrin's general direction, and groans at not being able to sleep in on the morrow.

Hastily wiping away his brimming tears in case somebody had noticed, (which, the most likely all had, thanks to Finnegan,) Foggrin silently loaded up his platter with all manner of edibles, plopped himself in his chair, and between mouthfuls of salads, pasties, and scones of all shapes and salads, commented to Furgles his old friend and comrade.

"Huh, that old lardbelly deserves some sense knocked into that old noggin o' his. Embarrassing me publicly just 'cuz of some bally old pudding to the face; hmph! I'd like to show him a thing or two; he ain't so tough! Big bark no bite, if you know what I'm saying wot?"

His friend shrugged. "I'd like to see ya try old lad. Though considering you were nearly to tears because of an ol' kick to the tail, didn't help things either!"

Foggrin suddenly reached across the table, tying to strangle Furgles; unfortunately he was too quick, so Foggrin eventually gave up, and pouted with his arms crossed across his chest, muttering dire death threats under his breath. "Huh, easy for you to say, ol' slackchops! I'd like to see _you_ when you're put on the spot like that, by ol' Ferocious Finnie himself. Probably wilt like an old batch o' lettuce, that's what ye'd do. Huh! Would serve you right for what ye did to me, you ol' cad!

Furgles waved is hand in the air nonchalantly. "Oh give your ol' gob a rest, Foggers old lad! You could have got off a lot worse!" He chuckled drily. "Think on the bright side; at least your ol' twin brothers ain't here! Then you would be in serious trouble."

Foggrin snorted derisively. "Don't get me started on those two. Them and that young blighter, wot's 'er name, Prim; the three o' them get themselves into more trouble then their worth. Er…you haven't happened to see them around have you?"

Furgles shook his head. "'Fraid not old bean now let me think," He began t chewing thoughtfully at his lower lip as if trying to remember something. After awhile, he sighed, shaking his head in defeat. "Nope, got nothing how 'bout you?"

Foggrin had been desperately trying to remember something tugging at the back of his mind; suddenly it hit him like a lightning bolt. He slapped his forehead in realization, leaving a rather undignified mark there, as it dawned on him.

"Oh corks, I remember now! Last I saw them they were all in line for tuck, each giving each other odd looks. I asked them what was up, and Tribsy replied with a twinkle in his eye, 'Nothing.' I should have known better, but then you showed up, and I lost track o' them. I thought nothing of it until now. They could be in serious trouble right now!"

His good friend Furgles immediately rose from his spot, his teeth gritted, and saying resolutely, "Then we've got not time to lose."

Politely excusing themselves from dinner, and hastily saying their compliments to the chef, they hurriedly raced off, the threat of something terrible unfolding within the mountain, and urgency lending speed to their steps.

Something deep below the surface of the ocean stirred. It had been asleep for a very, very, long time but slowly but surely it was waking, and it was not in the best of moods.

It had been far many long, dark, winters, but now it was preparing itself for the final assault upon the world.

It will be soon, thought the behemoth as it lay dormant on the bottom of the sea. It will be soon that I will have my revenge!


End file.
